


In the Chill of the Winter, She is the Sun

by sequence_fairy



Series: Whatever Keeps You Warm Inside [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, F/M, vague mentions of a tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:39:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The terrible weather in London notwithstanding, he's always cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Chill of the Winter, She is the Sun

_I wish that I could show you,_  
_when you are lonely or full of darkness,_  
_the astonishing light of your being_  
_\- Hāfez_

 

The day was grey, sky weighted by steely clouds and the temperature hovering just above freezing. Too early for this weather, but it fit his mood. He was crossing the quad, shoulders hunched and collar turned up against the raw wind when he saw her. Her blonde hair was a beacon against the grey sky. She lifted a hand in greeting and stopped him in his tracks. She came towards him, and ten years of silence fell away between them. Her smile bloomed on her face, and she reached out, to touch him on the shoulder.

What she said was: “Come over to my place after lab on Friday, I’ll cook you something.”

What happened is: He showed up to her place, after lab on Friday, much to his own surprise. 

The weather had turned for the worse; sleet, driven by a frigid wind that cut through his heavy jacket like it was nothing. Her building was close to campus, but far enough away that her neighbours weren’t all students, and he could hear the sounds of family life escaping from the doors that neighboured hers. 

He knocked on her door; its blue paint faded and peeling, but bright warmth spilled out into the evening when she slid the chain across and opened it to let him in. Her apartment was warm, and smelled of something spicy and comforting. He shrugged out of his coat and toed off his shoes before following her into the kitchen.  
He stood blinking in the brightly lit kitchen, while she fussed with a dial on the stove, jiggling it and harrumphing before achieving whatever setting she’d been aiming for. 

“Something to drink?” she asked, turning towards the fridge. John stood in sort of numb disbelief, he was in her flat, in her kitchen. She’d invited him here. “Earth to John?” Rose asked, waving a hand in front of his face. John startled. 

Rose’s laugh set fire to some of the cold places inside him, and he smiled back at her, feeling the muscles in his face twinge from disuse. She opened the fridge, leaning down into it, digging something out from behind plastic containers and other odds and ends. 

“Aha!” She exclaimed, spinning around to face him again, “I knew I still had it!” 

It was a bottle of champagne. John watched as Rose set the bottle down on the counter and then reached up to the top shelf, grabbing down two glasses.  
“Will you do the honours?” Rose asked him, presenting him with the bottle. 

“I don’t--” John began, but Rose shoved the bottle towards him and turned back to the stove. There would be no discussion. John turned the bottle over in his hands, reading the label. “Rose?” he asked. “You know this is not a cheap bottle of champagne, right? Are you sure you want to drink this tonight?” 

What he didn’t say was: “With me?”

What happened was: Rose didn’t see the hesitation in his face. 

“What better excuse to drink champagne than that we have some to drink?” Rose asked, stirring one of the pots bubbling away on the stove. The movement of the spoon released a burst of fragrant spices into the kitchen. “Come on then, get it open!”

“Alright, alright,” John answered, setting the bottle down on the table. Rose handed him a small paring knife to cut the foil. John unwound the wire cage holding the cork in its place and gripped the neck of the bottle firmly, pressing his thumbs against the cork. He felt it give and with a loud _pop!_ the cork exploded out of the bottle and disappeared after pinging off the dishes in the drying rack beside the sink. Rose whooped. Bubbly oozed out of the top over the bottle and over his fingers. John set the bottle back down on the table, and Rose handed him the glasses. John poured, the champagne fizzing and foaming. Rose handed him a towel for his fingers and he traded her for a glass. 

“Shall we toast?” Rose asked, and John nodded. “How about a toast to old friends?” John lifted his glass, and Rose followed suit. 

“To old friends,” they said together, and drank. 

The champagne was ice cold, crisp and dry, with the barest hint of sweetness at the beginning. 

“God that’s gorgeous,” Rose said, setting her glass down to fiddle with the pot on the stove again. Another bloom of scent curled through the humid warmth of the kitchen, and Rose turned around with the spoon to offer him a taste. John felt his eyebrows reach his hairline as she leaned in, clearly meaning to feed him herself. 

John closed his mouth around the spoon and was treated to an explosion of warmth - earthy, rich and with a bright heat at the end. He swallowed and grinned. “ _That’s_ gorgeous,” he said, and Rose flushed prettily with pride. 

“You think?” she asked, twirling a bit of hair that had escaped the messy bun piled on her head around her finger. “Just one of mum’s old recipes, surprised she never made it for you when we were little.” There was a pause; and before she looked away, John could see the way Rose’s eyes darkened with remembered pain. John groped for something to say, but before he could, Rose rushed on; “anyway, I made rice and there’s naan.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bread box, and John took the hint. 

He managed to get the naan heated through in the ancient toaster oven and cut into pie-shapes just as Rose had the rice bowled and the curry served over it. Rose topped up their champagne and carried their glasses and the plate of naan to the living room. John followed with the bowls, the heat of their contents radiating into his fingertips. They sat down on opposite ends of the couch, and Rose flicked the telly on before curling her legs up under herself and digging into the curry. 

They ate in companionable silence while something with a laugh track played on the telly until John scraped the bottom of his bowl with his spoon. He looked up, startled by the noise. Rose looked up too, and their eyes met. 

“Thank you,” John said, surprising himself for the second time this evening. Rose set her bowl down on the coffee table and picked up her glass, idly turning it in her hand. 

“For what?” she asked, “it’s just dinner.” She shrugged and drained her glass, then uncurled herself from the sofa. She picked up a piece of naan bread as she stood up and gestured to John’s glass. “Want another?” 

John nodded, and followed her into the kitchen with his bowl. While Rose busied herself with the champagne, John served himself another helping of the curry. The aromatics in the sauce made the insides of his nose tingle. Rose traded him his bowl for her empty one, and he re-filled hers as well. 

They sat down together on the couch again, Rose curled into the corner and John somewhere in the middle. This serving of curry was accompanied by Rose’s laughter at John’s sarcastic commentary on the sources (or lack thereof) used for the historical melodrama neither of them were watching. When they finished, John tried to gather the dishes and begin cleaning up but Rose insisted that he not. 

For lack of anything else to do, John kept their glasses full until his blood was fizzing happily through his veins. Rose was flushed, eyes sparkling with mirth as he regaled her with a ruthless impression of his thesis advisor. 

Rose sprawled across the couch, her head pillowed on his thigh as she told him about how hard this semester had been. John gripped her knee when he explained the breakthrough he’d had late last week. Rose sat up and leaned against him when silence fell between them. They drank the last of the champagne with her head on his shoulder and John staring sightless, at the telly, thinking about how long it had been since anyone had touched him so casually. 

He remembered the last time they’d been this close, remembered the way she’d curled into him, the way they both sunk to the ground in that antiseptic-scented hallway after the doctor had brought them the news. He also remembered after, how he’d walled everything up and subsequently, been unable to take the hand of anyone offering to help, never mind what Rose had offered. They sat, pressed together on the couch, and John wondered what Rose was thinking. 

The telly clicked over to the late night infomercials, and John realised suddenly just how late it had gotten. Late enough that the next bus would be more than an hour’s wait, and the weather hadn’t improved, given the sort of solid rain that was hitting the windows of Rose’s flat. 

What she said was: “You can’t go out in that. Stay.”

What happened was: John spent the night. 

The next morning, he woke, muzzy-headed and dry-mouthed. He was also warm. Too warm in fact, and it seemed he had woken inside a fluffy yellow cloud. He blinked, and the cloud resolved itself into hair, and John sat up quickly enough to knock Rose out of his lap and onto the floor. 

“Oh! Rose? Are you okay?” John slid off the couch, careful not to land on her and gently helped her to sit up. She blinked slowly at him, and then she smiled. Forget the light streaming in through the windows, the sun was here, in his arms. 

“‘M fine, John,” Rose said around a huge yawn. She stretched and picked herself up from the floor. “What time is it?” 

John scrambled up off the floor himself, and looked around for a clock. He heard a muffled giggle from behind him and turned to see Rose, mobile in hand, watching him with another grin. “It’s half-seven, d’you want to go find some breakfast? I’ve nothing in for that, was gonna pop ‘round to the shops later today.” Rose shrugged, and without waiting for his response turned to leave the room, adding over her shoulder, “Gonna change. Should be an extra toothbrush in the bathroom if you want.”

John stared after her and didn’t move until he heard the door to what he presumed was her bedroom close behind her. He stumbled to the bathroom, closing himself in and leaning against the door. He took a deep breath, and then went to the sink. His hair was flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. He shook his head, and ran his hands through his hair so it was sticking up on both sides and then splashed a little water on his face. He opened the medicine cabinet to find the extra toothbrush and was pleased to discover it wasn’t pink. 

A soft knock roused him from the mindless trance he’d fallen into while brushing and he rinsed and spit before opening the door and stepping out to let Rose in. While she was in the bathroom, John sat on the couch. When they’d been younger, it had been easier between them, before... well, before. He scrubbed a hand over his face, feeling what tension had drained out of him over the last few hours knot up in his shoulders again. He tied his shoes while Rose tugged on her coat and he followed her out the door. 

The air outside was cool, but the sun held a faint warmth that felt good on his shoulders. Rose chatted animatedly while they walked, bumping her shoulder against his and laughing when he looked down at her in question. Her eyes were bright, cheeks flushed from the chill air, but it was the way her tongue caught in her teeth as she smiled that caught his gaze. 

She’d changed, _so much_ , in the intervening years; grown up, grown older, grown more. He marveled at the way life still excited her, the way she waved at her neighbours, the way she smiled at the kids on the swings at the park they passed, the way she lifted her face to the blue sky and closed her eyes to feel the warmth of the sun on her skin. 

She was enthusiasm and joy and all the things he’d never managed to reclaim in his own life. He wondered how she’d done it. How had she climbed out of the hole of her grief, what ladder had she brought with her that he’d never found? They’d both lost their whole world, but while she’d managed to stay in love with what remained, he’d pushed it away. Her voice brought him out of his introspection, and he realised that she’d been asking him something.

“Sorry, what?”

“Nothing,” she hedged, and John raised an eyebrow, “just - you seemed sort of far away there. Is everything okay?”

John cast about for a way to explain himself, and settled on; “I’m always alright Rose, you know that.” He didn’t have a chance to do anything about the way that some of the light drained out of her face because they’d arrived at the diner and Rose was leading him to a table in the corner, calling out an order for tea and the special times two. 

Whatever camaraderie they’d had earlier, it was gone, evaporated into nothing like the steam coming off his tea. John stared down at the mug, willing their breakfast to come faster. He’d done it again, ruined it between them, after she’d given him a chance he’d never deserved. Rose was quiet too. John glanced across the table, catching her gaze at the same time as she caught his. Neither could look away any faster, and the silence between them deepened. 

Finally, their breakfast came, and John looked up and across the table again to find Rose looking back at him. She had a sad sort of smile on her face, and she was leaning her chin on her hand. 

What she said was: “I know you’re not alright, and I know you’re not ready yet, but when you are, I’m here.”

What happened was: She reached across the table and grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together.


End file.
